


Feuer und Wasser (und Erde und Luft)

by Traumfrau



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Also based on every interaction between Till and animals ever, Brief Mention of 9/11, Happily Ever After, M/M, Past Drug Use, Past Lives, Slice of Life, Visions, Witchcraft, based on Richard mentioning his past lives in interviews, brief mentions of abuse, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traumfrau/pseuds/Traumfrau
Summary: A series of vignettes wherein Till and Richard discover their unique talents—ones that extend far beyond music.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Feuer und Wasser (und Erde und Luft)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HachimansKitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HachimansKitsune/gifts), [Prismabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismabird/gifts).



> I noticed that Richard really likes talking about his past lives and encounters with spirits in interviews. I also saw one too many pictures of Till being cute with animals. And then, I dunno, I blacked out or something, and then this happened.
> 
> Special thanks to prismabird and HachimansKitsune, who kept me motivated with their own infectious excitement whenever I showed them another finished scene. I love you guys, you’re the best beta readers a girl could ask for!

_**Wendisch-Rambow, Schwerin, Mecklenburg - August, 1978** _

“There goes that Lindemann boy again.”

An old woman stood in her kitchen and spoke to her cat (which more closely resembled a small panther than a Haustier, if we’re being honest) as she watched it peer out the window at the shy, sullen teenager shuffling down the footpath, half-heartedly kicking a pebble as he went.

Absently grinding garlic with a mortar and pestle, she smiled at the odd way the front of his jacket wriggled, no doubt the result of whatever small mammal he was about to attempt to smuggle into his father’s house.

Till Lindemann had cultivated two different reputations within the village. The first was that of a nimble-fingered (if not ultimately goofy and harmless) petty thief, who had to be watched hawkishly, lest one’s money, silverware, or chickens mysteriously vanish. But the second, and the one which most intrigued the old woman of the village, was the shy, gentle boy who never met a creature great or small he didn’t like, and the feeling was clearly mutual. The animals which lived in the particular forest behind the Lindemann residence were perhaps the luckiest in all of Germany, as when the boy was chased out of the house by the volume of his father’s bellowing, he would retreat to the solitude of the woods and return with at least one injured animal to nurse back to health. It was a common sight in the village to see him with animals tucked into the front of his coat or trailing along in his wake, giving him the appearance of a particularly broad-shouldered and athletic Snow White.

What the old woman didn’t see, as she left her potion to brew and retreated to her sitting room with a cup of tea and her knitting, was the boy retreating back down the path towards home as the sun disappeared over the horizon, holding a tattered leather strap which was lashed to a particular ram, which had terrorized the village for weeks, but which was now trotting obediently behind him like a particularly dopey and loyal dog - albeit one with lethal horns.

* * *

_**Wittenberge, Prignitz, Brandenburg - December, 1980** _

Sven Kruspe was cold, scared, alone, and angry.

He was also only thirteen years old, and clutching a tattered book bag and just enough money stolen from his stepfather to buy a train ticket to Potsdam.

His slumped sullenly on a bench in the Wittenberge Bahnhof, fists clenched in his lap. If Mutter and Stiefvater didn’t want him around, then fuck them, as far as Sven was concerned. If he was going to be homeless either way, he would rather try his luck being homeless in the big city. He doubted that in Berlin everyone knew everyone they way they did in Weisen, so it would be far easier to do whatever needed to be done.

Whatever that was. Admittedly, Sven wasn’t entirely sure.

What he was sure of, however, was the sudden sinking in his gut that warned him to watch his back. His hands tingled in anticipation and he dug his rusted pocket knife (and in this particular instance, “his” meant “stolen from Stiefvater”) out of his bag. No sooner did his fingers curl around the handle than he looked up, his eyes meeting the alcohol-tinged, fury-filled gaze of his tormentor.

Sven blinked.

Stiefvater lunged.

And then Sven Kruspe did what he did best.

He ran for his fucking life.

* * *

_**A campground somewhere in Czechoslovakia - August, 1983** _

“I can’t play.”

The girl giggled. “Stop being modest...please?”

Sven idly strummed the guitar, hoping to drive her off with the noise.

Her eyes lit up and she scooted closer.

He sounded like shit, and he knew it. But something about the act of running his fingers across the strings, no matter how poorly, was enough to hypnotize her.

Sven already knew he had powers that he couldn’t explain to another soul (both in the sense that he couldn’t find the words, and that he knew even if he could, bragging about his “talents” would attract the attention of the Stasi), but this new development surprised him.

He blinked in surprise.

Then he grinned.

He knew just what to do with this power.

* * *

_**Lake Schwerin, Schwerin, Mecklenburg - June, 1985** _

Till stood on the dock, staring out at the calm waters.

He hadn’t dared to venture into the lake since the doctors had sewn his stomach muscles back together. The intervening years had seen him hating his former sport with a passion, but as of late, the lake had been calling to him, and while he had originally tried to ignore the pull, he couldn’t resist it any longer.

Did he even remember how to swim?

No, no, he mustn’t think that way. It was like riding a bike, or something. Right?

He took a deep breath and dove into the water before he could change his mind.

His body remembered what to do before his brain even registered that he had jumped. Before long, he was gliding through the water like a torpedo, and when he breached and turned his head to take in a breath, he saw the school of fish following along at his side.

When he reached the shore and sprawled out in the sand, he grinned.

The creatures of the lake recognized that their king had returned.

* * *

_**Nikolaikirche, Leipzig, Saxony - 10 October 1989** _

The blow to the back of Richard’s head came so suddenly that although he felt it coming, he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

White hot pain shot through him like lightning as he hit the pavement, hard. He couldn’t see, and he tried to crawl, to drag himself to safety, but two pairs of hands hauled him to his feet and he felt himself being dragged. “Fucking punks,” one of the unseen men muttered under his breath. “Always causing trouble just to cause trouble...”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Richard protested. “I was just trying to get home!”

“Yeah, I’m sure you were, once we showed up.”

“I didn’t do anything! Hey, where are you taking me?!” he protested as they shoved him into the back of the Polizei van.

He hung his head. His gut had told him that leaving the house was dangerous on this particular day.

He vowed never to ignore it again.

* * *

_**Weissensee, Pankow, East Berlin - 16 October 1989** _

Richard stepped through the gates of the prison and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, fresh autumn air.

The official story, as written in his Stasi file, was that after six days of benevolent interrogation, Herr Kruspe was deemed not to be a threat to the Communist cause and allowed to carry on with his totally average and not at all supernatural and terrifying existence.

But as we all know, the Stasi were a bunch of fucking liars.

What actually happened was that after six days of being beaten, taunted, starved, and deprived of sleep, even the most even-tempered soul will snap. And Richard was far from the most even-tempered soul in existence.

Unfortunately for the guards of Hohenschönhausen, he _was_ the most powerful in the prison that day.

Because of the less than accurate record of the incident, the details have largely been lost to time. The guards who were present that day ended up in an asylum, babbling about demons, and as for Richard...let’s just say that, in a sense, he wasn’t even present.

What we _do_ know is that Till, in fact, is not the first member of what in five years will become Rammstein to be set aflame, but he will be the first to achieve flammability through means that align with the known laws of physics and chemistry.

It was also the only occasion on which Richard Kruspe spoke Latin. To this day, he isn’t even aware that he can speak Latin.

Anyone else on a leisurely stroll through Weissensee on that particular day would have remarked upon the perfectly balmy and agreeable weather. But as Richard sat on a park bench and tried to gather his thoughts, he could feel a storm rolling in, energy tingling in the air around him.

He needed to find shelter, fast, and nowhere in the DDR would suffice.

For the first time, Richard Zven Kruspe ran for his life.

* * *

_**Rote Insel, Schöneberg, West Berlin - 8 November 1989** _

Another storm was rolling in, both literally, and in the mood of Berliners on both sides of the wall. Richard could feel the energy crackling in the air, an invisible force pulling him by the guts towards the border between his official home and his adopted one.

He lit a cigarette between trembling fingers as his whole body vibrated with nervous energy. He had no idea whether the feeling twisting inside of him was excitement or dread, maybe both. His thoughts drifted across the wall. Till. Would they ever see each other alive again? If their paths ever crossed again, would Till even want to see him? Or would the month since they last laid eyes on each other have left the older man feeling bitter and betrayed?

Richard couldn’t shake the strange feeling that he would soon know.

He just happened to severely underestimate how soon.

* * *

_**Prenzlauer Berg, Pankow, East Berlin - 9 November 1989** _

A dove perched on the windowsill, pecking insistently at the dirty glass. Till initially ignored it, not wanting to release the tension on the straw he was currently braiding in preparation to craft a picnic basket, but the bird’s wordless pleas for attention became more forceful until the danger of it shattering the pane became a very real possibility.

When he opened the window, the sound of shouting and revelry on the street below filled his small flat. Satisfied with the fruits of its efforts, the dove took flight toward the West, leaving a very confused human in its wake.

Till turned on the radio. What he had expected to hear, he didn’t actually know, but it wasn’t the news he actually received.

_The Wall had fallen._

Wessies were flooding eastward. Ossies were flooding westward.

A brief spark of hope exploded somewhere in his chest. _Scholle_.

His pessimism quickly smothered the thought. For all he knew, a lifeless body that used to be his best friend could be laying in the death strip.

It was too much. Till’s head swam as he tried to process this new reality.

And for Till, “processing” meant hiding under the covers with a bag of gummy bears, wishing with all his heart that everything would just...stop.

* * *

_**Grunewald, Wilmersdorf, Berlin - 12 November 1989** _

The autumn breeze rustled Richard’s cards as he sat by the lake. It admittedly wasn’t the best conditions under which to have them out, but as he had often come to this particular spot out of a desire to feel closer to the friend he so hastily had abandoned, nowhere else felt right to ask the worn, tattered deck how best to approach his uncertainty.

He drew the cards one at a time. The six of cups, a card of reuniting with past acquaintances. The Sun, a sign of happy reunions.

Richard smiled to himself. The cards seemed steadfast in their optimism. But as he drew the third card, the wind whipped it from his grasp. He glanced around, just in time to see it snatched out of the air by the figure approaching behind him.

Till stared at the image of The Lovers clutched in his hand, before looking up with a stunned smile.

“Scholle.”

The rest of the deck scattered in the wind as Richard rose.

“Till.”

They rushed to each other, clinging tightly to one another in a tangle of arms for what seemed to last for both an eternity and a fraction of a second.

“How have you been?” Till asked, holding Richard at arms’ length to get a good look at him. The past month had been good to him, if the newly visible muscles in his arms and chest were anything to go by. “You look great!”

Richard blushed. “Oh...you know. Just surviving.”

“Same,” Till grinned sheepishly. “Fuck...it’s good to see you again. They announced a refugee death the day you left, and...I didn’t know...but...I...I couldn’t shake the hope. It was all I had.”

Richard sighed and hugged him tightly again, nearly squeezing the life out of him. “I’m so sorry I left. The second I landed back in Berlin on the other side, I realized I missed you more than I hated where we were. Didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, or if you’d even want to.”

“It’s all I’ve wanted.”

Richard sighed contentedly. “How did you know to find me here, anyway?”

Till grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t. I found a baby fox a few weeks back and I’ve been nursing him back to health, and I came here to release him again but he was very insistent upon me following him.” He chuckled. “I should have known. You two are kindred spirits, after all.”

Richard packed up his things and slung the bag over his shoulder and the two of them began walking the path back to the mouth of the forest. “Well...now you have another fuchs to take care of.”

“Richard?”

“Ja?”

“No one is going to start calling you Fuchs. Give up.”

“You will. I know you will.”

As Till goodnaturedly grumbled and slapped Richard in the arm, the storm clouds parted overhead at long last.

* * *

_**White Sands, Las Cruces, New Mexico - August, 1992** _

“Jesus Christ, Kruspe, will you pay attention to the road?!”

Richard jerked the tiny, rented Beetle back into its own lane, then slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the interstate. Putting the car in park, he simply dropped his hands into his lap and stared at the dashboard in shock.

Oli tried to shift from where he was folded uncomfortably in the backseat, his head poking up between Richard and Till’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been here before.”

“What?”

“I said, I’ve been here before.”

Oli rolled his eyes. “You’ve never left Europe, dumbass.”

Till, on the other hand, squeezed Richard’s shoulder gently. “Did you have one of your visions again?”

Richard nodded and swallowed thickly.

“This is where I died.”

* * *

_**Prenzlauer Berg, Pankow, Berlin - February, 1993** _

Richard held his breath as he hid behind the wall, occasionally chancing quick glances around the doorframe.

Since the wall had fallen, Till listened to the radio voraciously, trying to catch up on everything he had missed, especially as he worked.

He sat at the kitchen table, and whittled away at what was slowly becoming a small wooden bear, singing some Western song about balloons that he had somehow just discovered despite it being nearly a decade old.

Richard’s knees nearly buckled from the intensity and abruptness of his vision. Till, center stage. Himself, to Till’s left. Cheering. Adoration.

...fire?

He ran a hand over his face. Till was terrified of attention. How in the hell was he supposed to convince his roommate that they were destined for fame?

The vision had to be wrong.

But what if it wasn’t?

* * *

_**Soho, New York City, New York - August, 1999** _

“So what do you think?”

“I think you’ve forgotten one small detail, Scholle.”

Richard frowned and looked the sheet music over again. “Was?”

“This is for your wedding, not your funeral.”

“Is it really that awful?”

Till sighed. “It’s gorgeous. It’s just...very melancholy. Bittersweet.”

Deep down, Till found that it perfectly captured his emotional state ever since Richard and Caron had announced their engagement.

Apparently, the guitarist felt similarly, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. He always poured his deepest feelings into his music. The music never lied.

He didn’t know he knew what was to come.

But he knew.

* * *

_**Correns, Var, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur - June, 2000** _

“I’d like to wring his fucking neck, personally.”

“Schneider’s right. He’s behaving like a wild animal. Can we just put him down and be done with it?” the second guitarist chimed in.

Till felt sick. They all knew Richard’s habit had slowly been growing out of control for a while now, but things had finally boiled over when Schneider had raised his voice to be heard over Richard’s stream-of-consciousness lecture about rhythm, and his reaction was to throw a punch at the drummer’s jaw.

It took Till, Paul, and Oli to pull Richard off him before he could accomplish his goal of smashing Schneider’s skull into the control board, and Till had slung the younger guitarist over his shoulder, still swinging his fists at nothing and shouting obscenities, and deposited him outside the room before locking the door.

Paul’s comment gave Till an idea. “Lock the door behind me. I’m going to try and talk to him.”

Paul and Schneider stared at Till as if he’d just announced that he believed himself to be Joan of Arc. Oli and Flake shrugged.

“Good luck.”

“I want your piano if you die.”

Till took a deep breath and opened the door. Richard was nowhere in sight. Wandering quietly through the house, he finally heard the sound of grumbling and someone cutting a line in one of the bedrooms. He knocked on the door.

“Fuck off.”

He sighed. “Richard, it’s just me.”

No answer.

“Scholle...”

“If you don’t let me do this line in peace, I swear...”

Till sighed. “Fuchs...”

The sound stopped, then he heard footsteps before the door opened. Richard’s eyes were red and his makeup was actually smudged.

“What,” he asked flatly.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Richard sighed. “I don’t know. You keep asking me these things and...I don’t know.”

“Can I come in?”

“Are you going to come in even if I say no?”

“Ja, but I thought I’d offer you the illusion of choice first.”

“Fine.” Richard sighed and stepped aside.

Till flopped down on the bed, rolling onto his side to face his friend. “You’re destroying your gift.”

“It wasn’t a gift, I bought this shit.”

“Not the blow, you twat. Your gift.”

Richard froze. “You...you know?”

“See what I mean?! Fucking psychic spends every fucking day with me and can’t tell he’s not the only witch in the band.”

* * *

_**Soho, New York City, New York - 11 September 2001** _

At 8:46am, Richard awoke abruptly, and didn’t understand why. This, of course, was not a product of any kind of unexplainable premonition, but a direct result of the massive explosion on full display from the roof of his apartment, and the sirens on the street below.

What was bizarre, however, was the dream from which he was awakened.

It was 1989 again, and Berlin was burning. The Wall was in flames, and over the roar of the inferno, he could hear Till on the other side, choking on the thick smoke and bellowing.

“Scholle! Wo bist du?!”

Richard tried to cry out, to reassure him that he was still alive, but each time he opened his mouth, the deafening sound of air raid sirens forced itself out instead.

He jerked himself awake trying to dodge a Molotov cocktail, and he could hear Caron’s horrific, anguished sobs from the living room. Something was very, very wrong.

He checked his phone. Five missed calls and a text from Till—“Are you safe?!”

By the time he tried to reply, he couldn’t get a cell signal.

Till was crying out to him, and he couldn’t respond.

* * *

_**Seelendorf, Nordwestmecklenberg, Mecklenberg-Vorpommen - December, 2002** _

“A zoo.”

“Ja! Isn’t it great?!”

“A zoo, Till.”

Richard sipped his wine as he regarded his best friend incredulously.

Till, meanwhile, was either oblivious to or ignoring the fact that Richard saw his latest undertaking as bizarre. “Animals are smart, Scholle. They know something’s wrong.”

“And they’ve told you this personally, have they?”

“Well...actually, yes.”

Richard blinked. “How many glasses of this have you had?”

“Not verbally, idiot. But their body language. They’re moping. Some of them won’t eat. I don’t think they understand what’s happening, but they can pick up on the negative energy.”

“Well...it’s your money. Can’t say I haven’t spent mine on worse things. As long as you’re happy—“

“It’s not about making me happy. It’s about making the animals happy again.”

“Right. Of course.”

“You should come out and visit it sometime, Scholle. I’ve told all the animals all about you. The foxes seem especially excited to meet you.”

Richard straightened up and preened a bit. “You really think so?”

Till grinned. “Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

* * *

_**French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana - 28 February 2006** _

It had been Till’s idea to cross “Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street” off of his bucket list, a fact which Richard had gladly reminded him of as the noise, the chaos, and the sheer amount of people grated on both of them.

Till, for all the anxiety the madness provoked, had managed to befriend a particularly gregarious pigeon who had decided to share his balcony, and was taking great pleasure in directing it to deliver beads to any particularly well-endowed women he spotted on the street below.

Richard, meanwhile, had ducked inside with a kind, matronly woman who called herself Priestess Zoë and wore more rings than he did.

“All I know is, she, y’know, painted me with a bullet in my skull, and ever since, I’ve been having these, y’know, godawful splitting headaches. Y’know?”

Priestess Zoë listened to him with a sympathetic expression, nodding as he stammered in his still-clumsy English.

“Evil eye,” she said.

“You think so?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Can you help me?”

She rose from the table, her eyes rolling back as she fell into a trance. She began singing, and dancing, and Richard couldn’t understand a word of it, but he watched with a mix of fascination and fear. She bathed him in incense smoke, and splashed him with holy water while reciting prayers, and held a crucifix to the invisible wound, and he wasn’t sure if he was being healed or exorcised or cursed more severely, but suddenly it was over and he felt lighter, as though she had removed several sandbags from his skull.

He eagerly offered her all the American money he had in his wallet and his last pack of cigarettes, and she chuckled at his generosity, before sending him away with a gris-gris she was delighted to hear he planned to tuck into his guitar case.

The next morning, Till held his head in his hands as he nursed a glass of hair-of-the-dog.

Richard’s head felt just fine.

* * *

_**Soho, New York City, New York - October, 2011** _

Richard awoke, once again, in a cold sweat.

He thought he had come to a friendly understanding with the spirits who shared his home, but apparently they didn’t share his taste in interior decorating, and as they had no corporeal means of making their opinions known to him, they rebelled in the only manner available to them.

Or perhaps they had merely enjoyed the company of Mrs. Bernstein more than his own, Richard wasn’t entirely sure. But all he knew that five years ago she had moved out, he had made the apartment more amenable to his tastes as a born-again bachelor, and then the nightmares had begun.

He had tried fumigating the entire place with sage. He had tried to reason with them verbally. He had even, begrudgingly, sought the help of a priest to exorcise the place. (He thought this last one might actually have worked, had he actually believed in God.)

And then, one day, it occurred to him that perhaps their attempts to drive him away were motivated by something greater than mere antagonism.

He picked up the phone.

“Hey, Till...listen...if I were to fly in, say, next week, and look for a place in Berlin to set down roots again...would you be around to catch up?”

He slept peacefully that night.

* * *

_**Holy Cross, Yukon-Koyukuk, Alaska - July, 2014** _

This was not at all how Till Lindemann had expected it all to end. He always figured he’d go up in a pyro accident, or his liver would decide once and for all that it had enough of his bullshit.

He never expected death to come in the form of a frigid riptide in the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t even sure whether they were in Canada or Alaska at this point. All he knew was that water was flooding into the canoe, Joey was audibly panicking, and he personally was wishing he’d listened to Richard when, gazing into the smoke from his own cigarette, he mused “Hmm...I dunno if that’s such a good idea, Till, y’know? I dunno about that.”

Till didn’t believe in miracles, but as Schneider once said, “there are no atheists in foxholes.”

Or slowly capsizing canoes in the middle of the Yukon, apparently.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the sudden shifting of the vessel, as he felt it being dragged ashore.

Joey screamed in spite of himself. A grizzly bear was attempting to tug them back onto land.

This was it. If he was lucky, they might eventually find some bones.

But after pulling them to safety, the bear merely flopped down on its furry behind and regarded the two men curiously.

“Till, man, what the hell are you doing?!” he heard Joey gasp, and then realized he was slowly reaching out to pet the creature’s snout.And furthermore, was being allowed, the bear nuzzling into his hand.

The next morning, when they awoke, the two men found several freshly-caught salmon arranged clumsily near their campfire.

Till still didn’t believe in miracles. But he was beginning to believe in guardian spirits.

* * *

_**Prenzlauer Berg, Pankow, Berlin - September, 2019** _

“I can’t believe you talked me into this. I can’t believe that you believe in this.”

“Okay, Doctor Dolittle.”

“I’m serious. I believe this stuff when you say it, but not when some fake gypsy queen with the shawl and the crystal ball and all the rings...”

“What about rings?”

“...never mind.”

Richard chuckled and rested his hand on the small of Till’s back as he led him under the large banner proclaiming “Psychisch Fair” in large gold letters on a blue background.

“It’s just for fun, Till. I never believe anyone who makes a profit off their gifts. It’s just fun.”

The two of them sat down with a seer who called herself “Madame Desdemona.” They had barely made themselves comfortable before she looked back and forth between the two of them.

“There is something between you two. It’s unspoken, but very powerful. Very powerful indeed.”

Richard grinned and slipped his hand into Till’s beneath the gaudy, beaded tablecloth.

They didn’t need a psychic to tell them that.


End file.
